


No Sherlocks Allowed

by cookieswillcrumble



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookieswillcrumble/pseuds/cookieswillcrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his otherwise calm exterior, John could not have been more subtle if he had dressed up as evidence at a crime scene and sang “I am an observation, look at me” through a loud speaker. Even Anderson would have no difficulty spotting it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Sherlocks Allowed

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was made possible by the wonderful and patient Eryberrie, who just so happens to be my lovely beta. If you spot any mistakes, they are mine. Please inform me so that I may discipline them appropriately.
> 
> There **will** be smut. You have been warned. But, let's be honest. That's what we're all here for!

As he lay on the sofa, critically dissecting the latest Journal of Forensic Sciences’ article on sustained combustion of bodies, Sherlock heard the familiar clink of a cup of tea being placed on the coffee table beside him. He raised an eyebrow with suspicion, lay the journal down across his chest and brought up his hands to his lips in contemplative prayer. John's simple act had inadvertently triggered an avalanche of retrospective analysis.

Life in the London metropolis had been mostly bearable, of late. There was a steady stream of relatively interesting cases supplied by New Scotland Yard’s finest. The British government had been unseasonably non-meddlesome. John Watson, ex- British army doctor and Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, also Sherlock's flatmate, has been in a reasonably calm state all day. This despite the fresh tongues Sherlock procured from Bart’s, for his latest experiment on the effects of gastric contents on the rate of degradation, which were marinating nicely on the kitchen table. 

The countless cups of tea he was being subjected to on the third Thursday of every month, he noted, for the last three months was the pesky fly in the proverbial ointment. If once was an accident and twice a coincidence, then three times was most definitely a pattern. Patterns, as the scenario seemed to be, would fail to escape the diamond cut analytical sights of one Consulting Detective. The **only** one in the world, Sherlock thought for emphasis.

Being the Master of Deduction with near unparalleled observational skills, Sherlock went through his analytical process. He had seen that there had been in fact five cups made, two of which Sherlock actually consumed. Yet, it was only late afternoon and Sherlock was certain to a fact that there would be at least two, if not three more conjured before the day was out. What made that particular cup the prime suspect was that it had an accomplice. A plate of biscuits. Not just any biscuits, no; Sherlock’s favorite shortbread biscuits. That specific brand only ever made an appearance if John felt that Sherlock needed cheering up and none of the data he had gone over supported that theory. To use the vernacular, ‘something was off’. 

Self proclaimed high-functioning sociopath he may be, living conditions in 221B Baker Street had been increasingly tolerable and Sherlock could not help but be wary of the consequences of the butterfly effect. Although serenity may be reflected on the exterior, a change of one variable may have disastrous after effects. Such uncertainty, Sherlock could not ignore. His little bubble could be at threat. Sherlock could never have dreamed of the domestic bliss he was currently in and a possible upheaval would be detrimental. To the work, Sherlock thought. John was important to his work, so it was easy to conclude that anything that affected John, would affect the work. It would also affect Sherlock, his traitorous subconscious whispered.

When John and Sherlock first became flatmates, John had been plagued by violent nightmares which woke him up four nights out of seven. The promise of sleep, after some particularly gruesome dreams, were lost eight times out of ten. Yet, time had become kinder with John. He was now well rested most days, with few nightmares to speak of waking him at night. Come to think of it, even Sherlock found that he slept more peacefully. His inevitable post-case crashes aside, when Sherlock did indulge in a few hours slumber, he felt himself well rested the following day. His mental faculties would still be surprisingly intact, despite his experience to the contrary in the past.

Apart from his sudden unorthodox obsession with the national beverage, John did not display any outward signs for this peculiar behaviour. John went about his usual routine, accompanying Sherlock in all their cases, and went to the surgery or Tesco in between. He ate the same meals at the regular times of day, all three if his dual carrier of GP and colleague to Sherlock Holmes allowed it. He encouraged Sherlock, with little success, to do the same. 

John's _infamous_ blog was updated periodically, detailing their adventures with such prose as to put Wordsworth to shame. Oddly, John continued to bicker over the ownership of laptops, despite the number of times Sherlock deduced his password. The programs John watched, whenever they ordered Chinese after a successfully predictable conclusion to one of their cases, were still the painful side of mind-numbing dribble enjoyed by regular pedestrians and their dogs. 

One memorable evening six weeks previously, they had each settled in their respective armchairs in the living room for a quiet night in watching telly. The peace and harmony was short-lived, much to Sherlock’s dismay. His resultant criticism regarding the withering wit of a particular BBC presenter had grated what seemed to be John’s last nerve.

“But it’s QI!!”

“Yes John. Very good,” said Sherlock. “Was it the _Q_ in the shape of a magnifying glass or the lower case _i_ in it sitting above that pompous imbecile’s head that gave it away?”

“Sherlock you are deflecting,” John huffed. 

“I most certainly am.” 

“Wait a minute,” John said with some hesitation, “you do know that that’s Stephen Fry, don’t you?”

“Why, John,” said Sherlock, voice dripping with disdain, “is that piece of general trivia _quite interesting_? What is the probability it will ever help solving a case?” 

“The man is a national treasure Sherlock,” John stated in his _I am restraining myself from physically hurting you_ voice.

“So if I were to look him up in the Book of National Treasures his name would be there, is that what you are trying to say, John? Fine, show me the book.” Sherlock said with no effort to hide his contempt.

“There is no bo..” John sighed. “Sherlock, it would probably do you some good to listen to Stephen more. You might actually learn something from him.” 

“I am afraid that a one way conversation with the TV is rather pointless and a sign of impending insanity,” stated Sherlock indignantly.

“Well you have no problem yelling at the telly whenever something upsets your little train of logic.” John barked with a stamp of his foot. “Besides, if you want to have a conversation with him, you can follow him on Twitter.”

“How appropriate.” Sherlock smirked.

This led to John raising the volume on the TV and ignoring Sherlock for the rest of the night. As Sherlock reflected on their records of irrational arguments, that was by far John’s most fascinating. There was apparently no depths too low for the level of _ordinary_ that John would stoop to. However, he would normally exit the premises on such occasions to ‘get some air’. Sherlock thought at the time that there may have been hope yet for John. He had put John’s behaviour down to acceptance of his time-tested and verified methods. He realises now that that was not the case. Not the case at all.

John’s social life, on the other hand, still consisted mostly of Sherlock, the odd old friend from medical school or a former army colleague. His sister Harry, was blessedly yet to make an appearance in their lives. John had no prospective girlfriends to mention. Five months ago, Sherlock was considerate enough to inform John that the girl he was seeing, a twenty-five year old graphics designer, was going to be proposed to by her live in boyfriend of two years and four months, just before he went out with her on their third date. After John had settled from an expletive fit he informed Sherlock that, despite his machine-like analysis, voicing his observations in that situation was good. John had gone about the rest of that afternoon muttering about Sherlock’s Sherlock-ness, but ultimately mellowed, sighing something about leopards and their spots. There have been no potential mates for John to speak of since.

As far as personal hygiene and appearances went, there were no new developments about John in that regard either. He showered and shaved every morning and after they got back from crime scenes and the morgue. He used the same brand of Boots' toiletries and Cool Water cologne. His haircut was an inch and three quarters shy from military grade and his nails a surgeon’s pride. 

John’s attire was simple yet functional. His loose fitting, block coloured shirts, casual jeans and made-for-comfort leather shoes were unassuming and camouflaged his potential for rage induced outbursts. His numerous vests and jumpers were ever more the source of every sheep in Scotland’s nightmare, with their woolly threat of pliable efficiency. John resembled a lamb but with a lion’s heart, Sherlock would contemplate with sentimental horror.

John still did the laundry every Wednesday, cases permitting, and would always either pick up or drop off Sherlock’s dry cleaning on the way. Sherlock’s socks were all that were thrown in with John’s load. Sherlock was not going to perform such a mundane task. Also, on one occasion, John found out that Sherlock was throwing away his dirty pairs and bought new ones in favour of doing the laundry. Sherlock’s logic was that all of his other clothes were dry clean only and his socks were not. Hence, John offered his services. 

Everything seemed in order in Sherlock's opinion, glancing back at the facts. John was planning a dinner of chicken korma with basmati rice which was to be served in the next two hours and forty five minutes, so why did John feel it necessary that Sherlock should indulge in the buttery bites? Surely, he realised that if Sherlock ate anything now, there was no hope for John’s culinary exploits to be consumed.

Sherlock looked back into himself reviewing the motivators of mankind. The original sins did not apply to this particular situation, so he stared at his index of categorized human emotions. He was half way through **E** when he heard a voice calling his name.

“Eh, Sherlock?”

“Mm?” said Sherlock, not breaking his inadvertently established eye contact with John.

“Are you alright?” inquired John as he furrowed his eyebrows, sounding concerned.

“Fine. Why do you ask?” said Sherlock, with a slight tilt to his head.

“It’s just,” said John as he ran his left hand to the back of his head, “you have been leering at me for the last half a minute or so.”

“I do not leer, John!” snapped Sherlock.

“Yeah, well,” John said with a slight tremor in his voice, “you were, and I was starting to worry.” 

“Why?”

“Why, what?” hesitated John.

“Why,” Sherlock said in his blandest _don’t be an idiot_ voice, “were you starting to worry?”

“Oh, eh.. It’s just.. Never mind. Forget I mentioned it,” mumbled John with a sigh.

Odd, Sherlock thought to himself. No wait, not odd, but guilt! John was feeling guilty! _One only feels guilty when one was hiding something that they knew was a bit not good,_ Sherlock thought. What could John possibly feel guilty about? Had John managed to offend Sherlock in some way that he was not aware of? That notion was highly unlikely, even without all the necessary data. Was John suffering with an irreconcilable conflict with the meaning of life? Nonsense. John accepted, if not he at least knew, that everything was about the work. Yet, John was definitely hiding something. That something was beginning to look like it was personal and laced with madame guilt.

The more Sherlock analysed the situation, the more intrigued he became. The ten-degree tilt of the edge of his mouth was the only external evidence that John was hiding something. From Sherlock of all people! Despite his otherwise calm exterior, John could not have been more subtle if he had dressed up as evidence at a crime scene and sang “I am an observation, look at me” through a loud speaker. Even Anderson would have no difficulty spotting it. What could possibly provoke John to do something so plebeian? Surly, John must realise, that in itself was a futile effort from the start. 

This was just getting interesting. Sherlock could not help the mental back flip he made as he began to plan the outline of his next experiment: 

_Experiment #JHW00163  
FIND OUT WHAT JOHN H. WATSON WAS UP TO._

_Null hypothesis:  
Something not good._

_Methods:_  
 _Turn up dial on observation radar to maximum capacity in all affairs John related._  
 _No observation is too trivial._  
 _Start by searching John’s room for clues. (Note: Do not forget laundry the basket)._  
 _Stealthily follow John everywhere ( **even** Tesco) till conclusion reached._

_Results:_  
 _To be confirmed._  
 _Not good for John, definitely._  
 _Not good for me, probably though unlikely with P value less than 0.05._  
 _ ~~Reign supreme as ULTIMATE consulting detective.~~ _

Sherlock had to cross off the final part to his conclusion. He was certain of that obvious detail and including it would just be too childish, even for him.

“Er, Sherlock?” poked John.

“Yes John?” Sherlock said as he continued to bore through John.

“Your tea will start getting cold,” John muttered as he padded his way back to the kitchen.

“Ah, yes. Tea. Thank you John,” said Sherlock, as he lifted the cup to his lips and blew away the steam.

Though he did not see it, Sherlock had accepted John's eye roll as subtext.


End file.
